Page 33 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests
“And you haven’t met anyone since, in all these years?” Cat quizzed, making Vivienne quietly proud. A good journalist knows to keep probing until you get to the answer.
“Well, I haven’t lived like a nun, exactly.
” She blushed, remembering that lost weekend in Corfu, that glimmering brown back and chipped front tooth, or the builder from Eastbourne with surprisingly gentle hands.
“But nothing like James again. And believe me, I’ve looked.
I’ve spent years and years looking, but in the end, I decided that we all get one true love in our lives, and he was mine.
And Tristan agrees. He says the same about Ellie. ”
“Tristan just wants you all to himself,” Cat teased. Vivienne rolled her eyes.
Ever since Vivienne’s birthday meal, which Vivienne and Tristan spent with their heads close together, deep in conversation, Cat has kept up this joke that Tristan is her “toy boy.” As well as their Sunday meetups, they often saw each other midweek, too, for dinner in Soho or perhaps the cinema.
They have surprisingly similar tastes in films. And TV shows. And books.
Vivienne and Tristan never seem to run out of things to say, and Tristan is always so eager to hear her opinion on the world.
Vivienne hasn’t felt so “seen” in a very long time.
Tristan has also opened up about his own life; he has such a talent for putting an amusing spin on excruciating moments, like the time he quoted “those who can’t, teach” to Ellie’s teacher friends, or when he helped out at a trendy bloggers event and been dismissed as an “IT troll.” What with Tristan, Cat, and Charlie in her life now, Vivienne feels that she doesn’t need anyone else, but Cat isn’t prepared to accept that.
“I’m not giving up on you. I’m finding you a man. Besides, none of us are getting any younger.”
Vivienne sighed. “Fine, fine, what harm can it do?”
***
Vivienne’s new social life kept her busy, but it couldn’t totally block the fear of her impending number. In fact, as time went on, she found it was ringing louder than ever in her ears. So two months ago, she arranged to meet Tristan at a café near Serendipity’s.
“I need your help with something,” she messaged him.
He turned up armed with his laptop, presuming she’d meant help with her website.
Once they’d ordered their pot of tea and some cake to share, Vivienne pulled out her notebook.
“What’s that?” Tristan asked, pointing to a list of names going down one side of the page.
“Devils,” she told him, surprised to feel herself blush.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been thinking about possible suspects linked to the dinner guests,” she says.
“Sir Cooke, Gareth, Bill, Giles…” Tristan read. “So Stella’s father, Matthew’s bully, Janet’s husband…and lover.”
“Just ideas, but I couldn’t find a way to link any of them to the other dinner guests,” Vivienne admitted.
Vivienne had initially been cautious about bringing up the topic of Serendipity’s with Tristan, but lately, it had crept into their conversations more and more.
Tristan tended toward his original suggestion of self-fulfilling prophecy, believing that Janet jumped in front of the taxi after becoming obsessed with her number. But Vivienne wasn’t so sure.
“So I was hoping you could help with some investigating today.”
He was taken aback when she told him her plan.
“You’re going to knock on every door on Salvation Road?” he cried.
“No, we’re going to knock on every door,” she corrected him. “I used to do this all the time as a junior reporter.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“To see if anyone saw the ‘devil’ lurking around,” she told him. “Or if they have any footage from the night of the dinner party.”
Vivienne assigned Tristan the even-numbers side of the road and she was taking the odds, including the Serendipity’s building itself.
“Being back here gives me the creeps.” Tristan shuddered, before plodding over to number 2.
After an hour, they were no further forward.
Most of the doors were slammed in their faces, often accompanied by choice language.
The people who did listen couldn’t remember a random winter’s night from two years ago.
As for CCTV, those that were working had had their tapes wiped after just a few weeks.
Finally, Vivienne had one more house to try: number 13.
Knocking on the heavy wooden door, she pictured herself standing there with Tristan two years before.
Just two years, and yet so much had changed since then.
She thought of the people who had come into her life and improved it beyond recognition: Cat, Charlie, Tristan.
The people whom she’d met inside this building and were now gone: Stella, Matthew, and Janet.
To her surprise, the door creaked open.
A short, stocky man with messy white hair, a worn tweed blazer, and thick glasses peered up at her.
“What?” he snapped.
“Sorry to bother you,” Vivienne said. “I think a police officer named Melvin Williams has spoken to you. I attended a dinner event here two years ago, and I’m just trying to contact the host to…thank them. Do you happen to have their details?”
“I haven’t heard from any police officers,” he said. “We used to hire the place out but don’t anymore. A company dealt with it all—the boss was a fella called Brookbanks or Brookham or something.”
With that, he slammed the door. Suddenly, Tristan appeared next to her.
“What did he say?”
“He hasn’t heard from a police officer, but Melvin told me he’d spoken to him,” Vivienne said as they made their way to the tube station. “He gave me the name Brookbanks or Brookham.”
They walked together in silence, both lost in thought.
“Why would Melvin say he’d spoken to the landlord when he hadn’t?” Tristan wondered out loud.
“I don’t know. To be honest, Melvin has disappointed me. He hasn’t helped me investigate this at all. In fact, he’s impeded the investigation, if anything…” Vivienne said.
“His behavior is certainly…odd,” Tristan said. “I tell you what, I’ll look that name up for you. See what I can find.”
***
A month after her trip to Salvation Road, Vivienne suddenly found herself sitting on the low wall outside her house.
Her right hand was throbbing, and she looked down to see blood pouring from a deep gash in her palm.
The last thing she remembered was leaving her house that morning to pick up the papers.
Glancing at her watch, she saw it was after 4:00 p.m. She searched around for her handbag, which always contained a fresh pack of tissues, but it wasn’t there.
Another fugue state. This one had stolen her bag, about six hours of time, and had left her bleeding.
She tried to stand, but her head spun so aggressively that she was forced to sit straight back down on the wall, using the sleeve of her sweater to try to stop the blood pooling in her palm.
Finally, she managed to wobble her way to the front door, found her spare key under the red potted plant on the windowsill, and stumbled her way onto her settee, where she collapsed.
Thankfully, Cat had taken Charlie to the zoo for the day, so she slept it off without having to answer awkward questions.
But the next morning, Cat spotted Vivienne’s still-bloody hand and insisted on driving her to the hospital for stitches.
Vivienne explained it away with a story of a smashed glass and clumsy hands.
Cat fussed over her for days afterward, keeping up a constant stream of milky tea, biscuits, and chatter.
But the incident cast a dark shadow over Vivienne for days, leaving her wondering if her increasingly troubling fugue states were a message that her number was catching up with her after all.
The thought made her more determined than ever to solve the mystery of Serendipity’s before it was too late.
***
At the school gates, Cat glares at Vivienne.
“What are you doing here? I told you I’d pick Charlie up today so you could relax and enjoy your date!” she cries, neglecting to even say hello.
“Robert Redford? You should get your eyes checked,” Vivienne snarls back, and then they both burst out laughing.
Charlie’s face breaks into a huge smile when he sees her, and Vivienne’s decision to leave her date early feels even more justified.
“Do you know, Cat, I think you need to stop worrying about me and sign yourself up for a dating service,” Vivienne says as they drive home.
“I’ve already told you, Charlie’s the only man for me at the moment. Maybe once he’s a bit older, I’ll think about it,” she says, her eyes not leaving the road.
Back at home they fall into their usual routine. Vivienne makes dinner for them while Cat sorts out the laundry.
“This one for tomorrow?” she asks, pulling a pale-blue blouse from the laundry basket.
“Yes, I think so. I’ve never been to a university lecture before, but you can’t go wrong with a blouse and smart trousers.”
“No, you can’t,” Cat says, adjusting the iron so that Vivienne’s delicate blouse isn’t scorched. She might be haphazard with her cooking and patchy with her cleaning, but you couldn’t fault the woman’s ironing.
“Gordon’s wife and daughter must be pleased they’re commemorating his work, given everything that happened afterward,” Vivienne says, throwing some penne into the pan of bubbling water.
“Yes, the stuff in the papers was pretty awful,” Cat says.